anarchist at imperial beach

shiftless layabout in transit
not enough laying about if you ask him
restless, foot's got an itch, anxious
to vacate whatever space. sharks suffocate
sitting still, you know, and i'm a true pisces
ever the romantic, nothing but blue sky dreams
alive on saltwater, watching for masts
over horizon, take in daylight while it lasts.
finally a minute's rest for my soles
feet all beat up, shoes paperback flimsy
with a beat up paperback pocketed
subject trash to tickle his whimsy
oblivious to the traffic jam behind him
unwinding, chimay beside, don't mind him

y'all should play metal black, it's pretty good

you ever get that feeling you've slipped out of the world?
or maybe of coming home to the same mess you left behind and finding it unfamiliar?


off distant, double back
causing trouble, that's
all there is to it, ooze through the cracks
true story of alex mack
games of metal black
the new alone amino acid
drifting gene cluster
pulled to fully charge beam buster



earth's destruction and then i was born
absorb the blame but i just got here
weird, okay whatever, eat a dolphin dick
i'm feeding you the means to my own end
(when i'm not busy jizzing lazers, at least)
goddamn beastly, behind we is tapestry of history
don't pay attention, way too busy fixed on me
on killing me, on killing spree, on spreading me
throughout the ether. either i can fight or resign
myself to spilling my life so you'll eat
ah, but who the fuck are you if not the reason
i'm tasked with resurrecting a planet deceased
y'all are some dicks, man.

doggerel

holy mackerel smacking lips over cannibal
cravings of lady hands and toes
sandwiches? what the hell are those?
felt a bit of a breeze, the whole planet's blowing
me but i don't kiss and tell. wish me well,
i'm shopping out a tell all missive
that'll ring in pennies for the wishing well
more than sister helen, i smack dunces with the yardstick
i mean a three foot ruler, not a metaphor for hard dick
i've never been that egotistical
and that's what makes me so fucking awesome and downright mystical
speaking of measure i lost the meter a day ago
and seem to catch it at all. wait, no
i think i. fuck. fuck.

honestly, i don't know what passes for terrible
so much floats by on irony
put whatever on the page
and get fellated as if i were byron
i'm a product of environment -- coffee shops and bars
liquor and sticks of biscotti, licorice whips and sharts
um. shots. no skids, i drive right
never mind the spinout i wrote about around the ninth
alright, alright, no end in sight
of this insightful blind folly
of the darkest enlightenment
the harshest invite into
the mind of a steel bear
whose trap isn't biting
unless that thing about finger foods got you
in which case, get on my plate
i said i'd take you for dinner, didn't mean a date

oh god, this is awful
mush rushed, stream of conscience
muddied by drugs stuck in the tapwater

FUCK IT

raphael says you gotta know what "fuck it" is to understand kick it

get some of that fuck it in your system, quit the system that's fucking you
i mean, if you're not into fucking today. tomorrow, might be different
and that's what's got you worried. well, shit, go find a new lay
this old one's leaving you bruised and it's no fun really
and really if it's no fun, why are you doing it?
guarantee you whatever payoff comes won't match your investment
what they made off you forty years makes a joke of pension
to say nothing of ulcers and hypertension
high blood pressure, repetitive stress injuries
and so on. so fuck it. you only get the one life
don't rush to give it to the first dangling check
see if maybe you're not just worried how they talk about you
and if they do, fuck them, too. they're looking out for your stability
how else will you know where your next humiliation is coming from?
fuck that. throw the towel in, it only looks like apathy,
but it's boxing: quitters never win, and winners get brain damage.

wait till i get my money right. then you can't tell me nothin', right?

my dad told me once, and i will never forget it, though i have forgotten where he told me he'd heard it before:

"when they came to us, we had the land and they had the bible. they taught us to pray with our eyes closed. when we opened our eyes, they had the land and we had the bible."

dropouts who can't afford it
anymore than they can machines to help 'em do the work
home for anthem broadcast, out again when rooster crows
back pains before reunion, beat up worse than booster gold
muscles popped from pulling ends together
put in work, they tell us, and our tired dogs'll walk through heaven
the meekest ones too shamed to claim inheritance
dead from overtoiling, of pneumonia. what year is this?
back home they struggle, look up - "in god we trust"
scraping notes of legal tender love and care like that's what's up
stacks and mortar cardhouse, but the deck's stacked
higher interest mortgages if you're brown or black
unemployment seventeen percent and climbing
but overall is dropping it's seven percent headlines
better not get sick if your boss don't like you
otherwise atop those doctor bills you join that population spike
"mmm, but wait 'till i get my money right
mortgage, suits and brand new shoes from dudes who called me 'monkey'
that'll show 'em." homie offered me a job, started
"so, what can you do?" out to mechanize my art
best intention, but i had to take a pass
long as i live i won't call any man or woman boss or master
not even self. i only have the one life
why waste it on a daily grind, tryin' to get mine?
i'm of a mind to live right now as i'd like to later
whatever tomorrow comes is a refinement of what i practice today.

not making ends, i'm taking means and making breakfast.

shroedinger's chair

that chair is mine.
isn't it?
isn't that my chair?
that isn't my chair.
that chair isn't mine?
mine isn't that chair.
mine that chair isn't.
is not that chair mine?
not that chair, isn't mine.

what do you mean, i don't have a chair?
what, do you mean i don't have a chair?
don't i have a chair?
i do have a chair.
i have a chair.

that chair is mine, don't "isn't" me, meanie.

you know, that hopper fella was onto something

born, chances are, into a roomful of people
certainly out of another person
certainly the product of two people (themselves of two people(themselves of two people(and so on)))

someday to die, chances are, in a roomful of people
certainly buried or otherwise disposed of by other people
certainly to be thought of by other people

how many of us live alone?
me, i can't afford to and i'd probably go nuts if i did.
no to mention i'm constantly surrounded by the works of others
and oh god the internet
did you know dust is mostly flakes of human skin?
i am breathing people right now
nevermind work, the roads during rush hour, the lines at the grocery store,
the security guard who looks at me cross,
every other stressed 20-something (millennials, that's what they call us now)
all freaking the fuck out because we must've done something wrong
for so much to not go according to plan
standing in the same lines
playing the same songs
writing the same poems

whoever it was that convinced us we're ultimately alone
has to be a hell of a salesperson or lawyer or novelist
or else so much wasted talent, goddamn.

it is crowded as fuck, this life of ours
but everyone's so lonely